


Ton coeur tendre

by salvage



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hair-pulling, M/M, Porn, Surprise feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac slides up to Combeferre’s side and casually rests a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers carding through the ends of Combeferre’s hair. Combeferre works to not tilt his head back into the touch, instead taking a measured sip of wine. In what Combeferre can only assume is a fit of compassion, Courfeyrac waits until Combeferre has swallowed until he grabs a handful of hair and pulls, tightening his grip until it is just this side of painful.</p><p>From a prompt on the Making Hugo Spin kinkmeme: Combeferre/Courfeyrac hair-pulling porn. Now with Feelings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ton coeur tendre

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to [Our Lady of Lazarus](http://ourladyoflazarus.tumblr.com) for her amazing editing skills (seriously, this story would be so much worse without her input) and also for coming up with the title. 
> 
> The initial prompt is located [here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2536083#t2536083).

“The first attempt to garner the interest of the masses must not appear too extreme, for—” Combeferre breaks his flow of words first with a soft, involuntary gasp, then to turn his head and murmur softly to Courfeyrac over his shoulder, “You must stop that.”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows innocently. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he replies as he drifts away, but he gives a lock of Combeferre’s hair a final, sharp tug before he’s out of arm’s reach.

“Something wrong?” Enjolras glances at Combeferre with real concern and Combeferre shakes his head. The back room of Musain is loud, as the meeting is on the verge of dissolving completely into comradely chaos, but they are determined to make this pamphlet perfect before dropping it off at a friend’s printing press later that night. Combeferre is mostly proofreading at this point, and Enjolras is mostly attempting to change their carefully chosen, somewhat diplomatic phrasing to something more incendiary.

“My friend, this is aimed at factory workers,” Combeferre explains for what he feels is the twentieth time. “Talk of bloody revolution will only drive them away.” Enjolras attempts to subtly tug the paper away from him. Combeferre places an elbow on it to hold it still. Courfeyrac had begged off of a second round of edits and is now drifting around the room, chatting and raising his glass with every little group of their friends, but his eyes keep cutting back and Combeferre is becoming distracted to the point of uselessness. He pushes his glasses up his nose and focuses on the pamphlet.

A glass of wine appears on the table in front of Combeferre. “It’s not a legal document, is it?” Bahorel asks.

Combeferre and Enjolras stare up at Bahorel with matching looks of confusion. “Of course not,” Enjolras replies.

“So, nobody is at risk of imprisonment or serious financial trouble if the wording is imperfect?” A smile is creeping across Bahorel’s face and Combeferre is not ungrateful.

“It is not merely—” Enjolras replies, but Bossuet places a hand on his shoulder and Joly leans forward and swipes the paper from the table. Combeferre makes a token attempt to grab at the paper but he knows it’s useless. Bahorel pushes the glass closer to him and he takes a drink.

“It was finished a half hour ago,” Joly says, examining the paper to ensure the ink has dried and folding it neatly in thirds. “This bottle of wine, however…”

“We concede defeat,” Combeferre says, bowing slightly while still seated. Enjolras looks as though he’s attempting to remain annoyed, but for all his moral conviction, Combeferre has never seen him stay angry at true friends. Enjolras takes the paper from Joly and tucks it inside his jacket; he might be as glad as Combeferre is to have an excuse to be done with it.

As Bossuet and Joly engage Enjolras in conversation, Courfeyrac slides up to Combeferre’s side and casually rests a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers carding through the ends of Combeferre’s hair. Combeferre works to not tilt his head back into the touch, instead taking a measured sip of wine. In what Combeferre can only assume is a fit of compassion, Courfeyrac waits until Combeferre has swallowed until he grabs a handful of hair and pulls, tightening his grip until it is just this side of painful. Combeferre’s eyes flutter closed for a moment and Courfeyrac hums beside him. “I doubt I’ll ever tire of that,” Courfeyrac murmurs, and turns away to respond to something Bahorel is saying to Feuilly. Joly asks Combeferre about something odd he saw during a dissection that day; Combeferre stands to face him and then promptly loses himself in a discussion about the size of the human spleen for upwards of an hour.

“As thrilling as I’m sure this conversation is,” Courfeyrac butts in, leaning more heavily than he most likely needs on Combeferre’s arm, “may I cut in?”

Joly smiles at the two of them, eyes flicking back and forth a tad more knowingly than Combeferre would like, before joining a nearby conversation. Courfeyrac takes the opportunity to face Combeferre, hand still on his arm but now more to caress than support himself, and simply looks at Combeferre’s face for long enough that Combeferre becomes self-conscious.

“Are my glasses crooked?” Combeferre asks, reaching up to adjust them, but Courfeyrac grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. Combeferre glares disapprovingly at him but makes no real effort to break free. “We mustn’t. Not here.”

“Come back with me,” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre grins wryly at him.

"Was there any doubt that I would?”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman without asking.” Combeferre restrains himself from remarking on Courfeyrac’s profound lack of gentlemanly conduct, but just barely.

Courfeyrac breaks away from Combeferre and makes a slow circle around the room, taking his leave of every man individually, promising a drink the next night, a conversation the next week, to loan a law book to one friend and the latest romance novel to another. Combeferre says his goodbyes to Enjolras and Joly but, as before, his eyes keep tracking back to Courfeyrac’s fashionably curled hair, his ears keep picking up the tones of Courfeyrac’s bright laughter. He wraps himself in his coat and scarf and steps outside; it’s cold but still and the quiet almost rings after the noise inside the café. A fiacre passes, wheels rattling on cobblestones, the sound of the horse’s hooves echoing across the narrow street.

The door to the café opens and Courfeyrac comes to stand beside him, still buttoning up his coat. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.” Combeferre pulls his scarf so far up his face that his glasses fog slightly with each breath. They walk to Courfeyrac’s small apartment in little time, both the temperature and anticipation quickening their steps.

It’s late enough that Courfeyrac’s slightly insane, busybody landlady must be asleep, though the students who live in the apartment below Courfeyrac’s are still awake and talking. Combeferre has hardly shut the door when Courfeyrac pounces on him, tugging the scarf away from his mouth to kiss him. Their hats fall to the floor, Courfeyrac’s barely avoiding the table and, thus, a mishap with the candle he has just lit; they ignore it. Unbuttoning each other’s coats with the ease of long practice, they break the kiss long enough to struggle out of them and quickly hang them. Courfeyrac unwinds Combeferre’s scarf as Combeferre adjusts his glasses, which were knocked askew.

“If you will,” Combeferre says softly, once the scarf is gone, and Courfeyrac kisses him again, more deeply this time, bringing his hands to Combeferre’s waist.

“Perhaps a change of scenery?” Courfeyrac suggests, and pulls Combeferre to his bedroom. As though Combeferre couldn’t find it himself. Or as though he’s unwilling to stop touching him, Combeferre thinks, though he can’t quite parse that thought out to its logical end as he and Courfeyrac resume undressing each other, Courfeyrac’s warm hands sliding distractingly against Combeferre’s skin.

Combeferre lays his glasses on the bedside table just before Courfeyrac pushes him back, both of them fully naked, onto the bed. “Will you fuck me tonight?” Courfeyrac asks, as though Combeferre would ever refuse him. He curls his fingers in Combeferre’s hair before Combeferre can respond, pulling hard enough that Combeferre has to tilt his head back, exposing his neck. If Combeferre had not been aroused before, he thinks wryly, that alone would have done it; as it is, he makes a soft noise in his throat and feels his hands tighten in Courfeyrac’s soft, expensive bedsheets. Courfeyrac growls, tilts his hips so their erections press side by side, kissing and finally biting at Combeferre’s neck as he grinds their bodies together. Combeferre grasps at Courfeyrac’s arms, the smooth skin of his back.

“Yes,” Combeferre says, “yes,” and Courfeyrac slows the almost frantic movements of his hips to press their lips together, breathing for a moment against Combeferre’s cheek.

“Good,” Courfeyrac says after a moment, and, with a final peck to Combeferre’s lips, he sits up to search for the little tin he keeps in a drawer in the bedside table. Combeferre props himself on one elbow, admiring the lines of Courfeyrac’s body. He slides a hand up the inside of one thigh as Courfeyrac attempts to close the drawer; distracted by Combeferre’s fingers brushing up his erection, Courfeyrac nearly falls off the bed instead. He collapses on top of Combeferre, pretending to glare. Combeferre gives him an innocent look. “Shocking, really, that everyone thinks you’re some serious scholar of medicine and philosophy, when in truth you’re a devious little—” Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac before he can finish the sentence.

They rearrange themselves until Courfeyrac is on his back, half-propped by pillows, and Combeferre is kneeling between his spread legs. Combeferre pops the lid off of the tin and slicks two of his fingers. With his left hand slowly stroking Courfeyrac’s cock, he gently breaches his body with one fingertip. Courfeyrac opens for him, breathing calmly, only murmuring “More, please,” when he thinks Combeferre is going too slowly. Combeferre works two fingers into him and Courfeyrac arches his back up, breathing more quickly now, heart rate elevated. “I want,” Courfeyrac begins, but Combeferre withdraws two fingers and presses in with a third, curling his fingertips up so that he brushes Courfeyrac’s prostate. Courfeyrac’s hands crumple the bedsheets and his mouth falls slack (though not for long). “Do it now,” he demands, and Combeferre can’t but obey.

It’s almost with a feeling of relief that Combeferre slicks himself with lubricant and finally enters Courfeyrac, though his body nearly trembles with the effort of not thrusting too hard initially. Courfeyrac sighs, eyes closing blissfully. His knees come up on either side of Combeferre’s waist, holding him gently in place, and one hand drifts up to bury itself in Combeferre’s hair. “Now move,” he says, eyes locked on Combeferre’s, and Combeferre does.

He eases his hips back until only the head of his cock is inside Courfeyrac, then presses forward only a little less gently than he entered; Courfeyrac grabs his forearm and presses his fingertips into it, what Combeferre knows is a silent plea to hurry up. When he does, Courfeyrac’s head falls back, exposing his pale throat, and Combeferre cannot help but press his face into it for a moment, lips brushing where he knows Courfeyrac’s pulse lies just under the skin, names of arteries flicking through his memory.

Courfeyrac is easy and tight around him, skin heating where it touches his until they are both sweating, fingers in his hair tightening when Combeferre stutters and thrusts just a little deeper, a little harder. Courfeyrac brings one hand between them to stroke his own cock and pulls hard at Combeferre’s hair; Combeferre’s hips snap forward. He groans, but knows better than to apologize when they’re both this close. Courfeyrac pulls again and pain prickles across Combeferre’s scalp, intensifying and retreating.

Combeferre is close to orgasm, well aware he’s making soft, desperate noises, hands tightening where he’s clutching Courfeyrac’s shoulders. Courfeyrac uses the hand not tangled in Combeferre’s hair to align their mouths; they are not so much kissing as breathing each other’s air, and when Courfeyrac says, “Come for me,” Combeferre takes only a few seconds to obey.

He returns to his senses sweat-covered and breathing heavily. Combeferre’s body feels useless and limp but, after a slightly uncoordinated kiss, he pulls out of Courfeyrac and slides down the bed, kneeling between Courfeyrac’s splayed knees. A few drops of precome leak out of Courfeyrac’s cock as Combeferre takes it in his hand and licks the head, teasingly. Courfeyrac moans, visibly holding back a twitch of his hips when Combeferre fits his mouth around it, working the rest with his hand. It only takes a few minutes for Courfeyrac to once again get his hands in Combeferre’s hair. He doesn’t hold Combeferre down, for which courtesy Combeferre is grateful, he just pulls again at Combeferre’s hair.

Combeferre readjusts his arms until he can press two fingers into Courfeyrac, curling them until he reaches the spot that makes Courfeyrac moan, low and filthy. He fucks Courfeyrac with his fingers, then, still working his mouth over Courfeyrac’s cock, only for a minute before Courfeyrac twists the hand he has fisted in Combeferre’s hair, slurs out a warning (too late, not that Combeferre minds), and comes down Combeferre’s throat.

Combeferre drags himself up Courfeyrac’s body to lie half on top of him; Courfeyrac rests one hand heavily on the back of his neck and kisses him as much as he can without moving.

“You always exhaust me so deliciously,” Courfeyrac mumbles against Combeferre’s mouth. His eyes focus on Combeferre’s hair, which Combeferre suspects looks horrifyingly disarrayed for having sweating hands tangled in it for so long. Courfeyrac moves his hand to smooth it, though after combing his fingers through it he lets his knuckles drift along the outside of Combeferre’s ear, along the line of his jaw, up over his cheek. Combeferre looks at him quizzically, but Courfeyrac just kisses him again.

After a moment, Combeferre takes a breath to speak, but Courfeyrac beats him to it.

“I’m preempting you,” Courfeyrac says.

“Sorry?”

“You’re going to say you need to go back to your apartment and your textbooks and your notes and your studying.” Courfeyrac makes a dour face.

“I am?” Combeferre adjusts his arms around Courfeyrac.

“You are. But I’m preempting you.” Courfeyrac kisses him gently. “Stay here. With me.”

“What if all I was going to say is that we should get under the blankets, because it’s cold in here?”

A grin breaks out over Courfeyrac’s face. “Well then I’ll preempt that, too.” They both move enough to cover themselves in the tangled blankets before curling back into each other’s arms.

“That’s better,” Combeferre murmurs. Then, after a moment, “We didn’t snuff out the candle.”

“I’ll get it in a moment,” Courfeyrac replies, appearing to have no intention of moving. He brushes his thumb along the stubble beginning to come in at Combeferre’s jaw, still simply looking at his face. “Just another moment.”


End file.
